


Dessert

by Violetwylde



Series: Martin RPF [7]
Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, Public Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 02:33:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18791230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violetwylde/pseuds/Violetwylde
Summary: A short epilogue to When You See Him on the Dance Floor, as requested for 221B-Consolation.





	Dessert

Your fork scrapes across your plate, a sharp, grating sound. The man across the table—Robert, no, Roger—looks over and you try to smile, but it’s a tight thing. You don’t want to be smiling, you want to be gasping, panting, crying out.

There’s eight people gathered around the table and you don’t know any of them, but to be fair, neither does Martin. There’s a project he’s considering and one of the producers is sitting at the other end of the table. She’s elegantly coiffed and, like you, wearing a chiffon dress. But the neckline of her dress is much more conservative than yours. She’s also much more likely to be wearing underwear. The string of pearls at her throat is quite different than the pearl necklace you wore earlier today. She doesn’t have Martin’s fingers teasing between her thighs.

He leans in close, breath tickling against your neck, and whispers, “Open up, pet.”

A sigh shivers out between your lips. God, you’d love nothing more. Just a little shift and his fingers would slip down, slide over your clit, press into your wet cunt. Your hands are trembling as you put down your fork and turn to look at him.

He’s smiling, rakish and teasing. His eyes are shining with mirth. He’s holding up a strawberry—vibrant red and drizzled with a balsamic glaze.

Your cheeks flush warm and you can’t help but giggle.

“What did you think I meant?” He asks, cocking his head in mock innocence. “Did you think I meant here?” And he rubs his fingers in a tantalizing circle along your inner thigh.

You nod, not trusting your voice, and he’s tsks. “Naughty pet.”

You bite your lip against a whimper. You are. You’ve been so naughty. You let him pick out your clothes—a flowing knee length dress in the softest iridescent blue, no bra, no panties. You let him slip the dress from your shoulders in the backseat of his car—let him kiss along your neck and collarbones, let him suck and pinch your nipples until they were hard peaks, clearly visible under the thin fabric of your dress. You let him put his hand on your bare knee, and slowly slide it up your thigh. You’ve let him have his way with you all night long.

Sometime between the entrée and desert he pushed the hem of your dress up, so that it bunched around your hips—a fact that is thankfully obscured by the white tablecloth. The tips of his fingers have been brushing over the soft skin of your leg for well over ten minutes now, and every time he dips in closer the crease of your thigh, you think you may actually combust.

“Come on, then. Open up,” he says again.

You open your mouth and let him push the plump fruit between your lips. Juicy and ripe. The glaze his acidic, richly complex. You bite down and there’s a fresh burst of flavor—bright and sweet. Delicious.

But the thing that makes you moan, the thing that makes your eyes flutter closed, is the slide of his fingers against your pussy—tucking in and strafing over your clit.

“Is that good?” He pulls back the hand holding the fork and rubs the fingers of the other hand in small, slow circles.

You open your mouth to say ‘yes’, but all you can manage is a high, broken, “Ha.”

“Martin,” a man two seats down says, and he effortlessly rejoins the conversation.

You don’t know who’s talking or what they’re saying. You don’t care. All you can think about is the maddening glide between your slick folds. The way his fingers curl and flick and play against your swollen clit.

The waiter comes up behind you and silently refills your water glass, and you are suddenly hit with the insanity—the indecency—of what’s happening. You should stop this right now—push his hand away, excuse yourself from the table.

You spread your legs.

It’s not long before you’re clenching your hands around your napkin, straining in your chair, struggling to keep your breathing controlled. You’re throbbing, aching, spiraling. Higher and higher, riding the precipice of orgasm. A tittering of laughter ripples across the table and you use the moment of distraction to whimper and come.

When you finally come down, pulse slowing and mind clearing, you look over to find him smiling back. His eyes burn like embers as he brings the tips of two fingers to his lips and sucks them clean.

“Delicious meal. Wouldn’t you say, pet?”


End file.
